WHEN WALKING

Glendalough to Glenmalure round trip: 35km

A Sense of Completion

Today is the day it all came together. Final proof that the unplanned stay in Glendalough was meant to be.

The day started with two Norwegian girls in my dormitory decorating their heavy-sleeping friend’s bed with balloons and flags, and, as we’d been warned the night before, singing Norwegian Happy Birthday to her on the dot of 8. I was delighted. The other occupant of the room put her head beneath the pillow.

After breakfast, while washing my glasses in the sink, I speak to the little German guy I’d noticed in the lounge last night. He finds my name hilarious, but he is Herman the German, so we’re quits. We end up singing Herman’s Hermits and a little bit of the Erl King. Then he shows me a laminated piece of card he keeps in his pocket with an old French song he’s learning and singing on his walk. He sings it to me, about Celine, the unfortunate sister who never got married and ends up being the mother to everyone. Should have taken up walking, I think.

Today my legs are back to full capacity and I make a plan to see the one place I had been loath to miss. I will finally visit the valley of Glenmalure.

I plan a route on new paths, starting from the lower lake. The crowds haven’t arrived yet, but a few people are already out in the water. There is a beautiful path that winds its way through the trees, joining the small stony beaches along the northern shoreline of the lake. I have it to myself as the main gravelled path is further up.

From the path I look across to the tiny manmade cave in the cliffs, Saint Kevin’s Bed, where he was said to go to reflect in peace. It seems it was hard to come by as he atrracted quite a crowd. All the way along the lake is towered over by the green velvet mountains and the rocky crags.

At the top of the lake the path zigzags up alongside a series of cascades and rocky pools. Despite the full sun, the walk up is a joy, with a cool breeze blowing down the valley and irresistably well placed spots to rest and admire the view at every turn.

After reaching the head of the path on the board walks, I briefly come down on the rocky path I had struggled up two days ago. A German girl, walking up the trail as I come down, offers the couple in front of me some fresh fruit.

“My fruit box is leaking and the juice is coming down my leg” she explains.

The couple seem lost for words. I take some pineapple, and as soon as the lovely girl is out of earshot, the couple collapse in laughter.

I turn off to complete my plan for the day, to get to Glenmalure. If my legs hadn’t seized up, if the hostel had been open, that’s where I’d have been a couple of days ago, in a little hostel with no electricity and no running water. But the warden was sick and my plan changed, for the better, I think.

I go back over the top and over the boardwalks before coming down a zigzag path by the waterfall on the Miners’ Way.

A smartly dressed man overtakes me, skipping down the hill, and asks me, “Have you seen Michael Dwyer’s Rock? Have you been up on Mullacor?”

I tell him I haven’t been up on Mullacor and I haven’t seen his rock, although I have heard of Michael Dwyer. I’m delighted at this point, as Liam on the first day had recommended the Irish History Podcast with Finn Dwyer, and I’ve been listening to this to educate myself, possibly adding to the slightly low mood of the first two days. As a result I now know everything I need to know to impress a passing stranger with my knowledge of early nineteenth-century Irish history.

It turns out the man coming down the hill is a researcher for Tracks and Trails for RTÉ. I tell him I’ll look it up.

“It’s on YouTube as well,” he tells me, realising I’m not from these parts.

I reach the bottom of the waterfall, three streams all coming down together, and a few too many abandoned campfires, and then carry on to walk along the road, down to the valley’s one pub. I find some woods to one side. A lot of wild camping is going on and I pass a few too many more deserted campfires full of debris.

But the Glendalough Valley is as isolated and beautiful as I’d imagined, and big enough to dwarf a few miscreants. Massive waterfalls cascade down the entire mountainside on the far side of the river. A very few houses get to enjoy the view.

Halfway along the road I see my smart TV friend and his colleague standing by a car and say hello again. They’re still trying to find Michael Dwyer’s Rock.

Having walked on a few hundred metres, I look at my app and see Michael Dwyer’s Rock on there and do something I rarely do. I walk back to show them. They look with some interest, but are then quite dismissive. They say that people are always just doing Google drops for various heroes’ names, and placing them on any rock they find.

Even so, I think they appreciate the good intent and offer me a lift down the hot road to the Glendalough Lodge, which I’m happy to accept.

As we’re in the car, a very luxurious car, they point up to a bare hillside where the trees have been cut down and start bemoaning the work of the Irish Forestry Commission. They can pronounce the name Coillte, which I could not. When I tell them this, they say, “Don’t worry, neither can the CEO”

I mention a few of the things Ian the forester told me yesterday.

“It’s a very contentious issue,” is the reply, and the subject is dropped.

“That’ll be an ecumenical matter,” I think to myself.

Having parted with them, I indulge in a pint of shandy. I promised them I’d get Guinness, but I can’t break my habits. I will have one before I go.

After it’s a shortcut back over the hills, first walking up by the stream and the fairy glen of the Coolalingo waterfall, where families and a couple with their dog are splashing in the water. I don’t think since watching the nuns by the Trevi Fountain back in the 80s have I seen a place so full laughter and happiness.

I carry on, on the Military Road, cutting off through the plantations, hounded from time to time by flies, and eventually being guided off across the moorland through heather and bracken and gorse. I’m not worried if I fall down, because I know from the Enid Blyton school of survival skills that if I fall on the heather, it’ll be as soft as any mattress. Not so keen on the gorse, and I will need to check my legs for ticks later on.

But it’s beautiful to be up there, and somehow, however thick the undergrowth gets, the path is always there underneath.

And here I am now, back on the Military Road, walking into Laragh, from where it will be my favourite track, past St. Saviour’s Priory, along the river, and home.

I’ve done my own Wicklow Way. I can always come back with a tent and do it from the other end next time. And thus shall I complete a three-pronged attack on Saint Kevin. It really is very hard to leave the guy alone.